


Prom Night

by EasyTiga



Series: Easy Tiga's Thirst Tweets [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sam, Car Sex, Come Swallowing, Dean Winchester Being an Idiot, Deepthroating, Falling In Love, First Time, Frottage, Grinding, Jealous Dean Winchester, Jealous Sam Winchester, M/M, Making Out, Manhandling, Marking, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Possessive Dean Winchester, Prom, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex in a Car, Top Dean, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EasyTiga/pseuds/EasyTiga
Summary: Dean never went to his prom. But damn if he's not gonna make Sam's the best night of his life. It's his last one, after all.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Easy Tiga's Thirst Tweets [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935295
Comments: 26
Kudos: 226





	Prom Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was a lot. 
> 
> The boys had a lot to say, so I just went with it. I had to write this twice because I did something that wiped my cache and I hadn't made a backup of it on Gdocs, so... Yeah. That was upsetting. But I picked myself back up off the ground, figured out where I was going with it and got right back into it. 
> 
> This is the result of that. Lol. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the read! Don't forget to check out my twitter page for future polls @JackleConda ^^
> 
> And remember that you can make suggestions. :>

Not being asked to prom, even when Sam’s been in town for just under three weeks, stings. More than he would like to admit. Enough to at least have him dragging his feet on his way home, hand secure around the strap of his bag and eyes on the floor.

He shouldn’t have his eyes on the floor. He should be watching his 3 and 9.

John’s not here, so why should he care? Dad said this place is clean. Why bother lifting his head up from the ground? What if it’s the only thing stopping him from screaming?

Why he wants to scream, he doesn’t know. The humiliation of not being asked? The shame of not having the confidence to ask anyone himself? Maybe. It’s possible.

Or maybe it’s because he couldn’t ask or be asked by the one person that he would actually consider going with.

Sam’s a messed up kid. Ain’t that the truth. He’s been lusting after someone he has zero business lusting after, but can’t quite seem to get the message. Not when that person is walking out of the shower, towel slung low on their hips, water careening down their body, glistening like the sun shining on a peaceful stream.

Not when that person walks by him, ruffles his hair, asks him what he wants for breakfast and then makes a show of being put out when he has to run to the store to get what Sam wants.

Not when that person reaches around him to grab something from the cupboard, body almost pressed to his back, groin so close, yet so far away.

Not when that person honks at him on his way back from wherever he’s been, offering him a lift and a heartstopping grin.

Not when that person notices he’s fallen asleep in the passenger seat, moves him to the backseat, throws a jacket over him and whispers sweet dreams _ , kiddo,  _ that he assumes goes undetected when actually it’s the nail in the coffin that pulls Sam into the sandman’s waiting embrace.

Not when that person bites their plump bottom lip as they fuck their hand under the covers, keeping down their level of arousal to not disturb the other person  _ sleeping  _ in the bed next to them, not knowing that said person has one eye open and is gently thrusting into their own fist, wishing their lip was trapped between those pearly whites, wishing those hands were pressing bruises into his hips as strong thighs pounded against his, a large, thick, slightly curved cock buried balls-deep inside him.

Not when that person says his name and everything…

Feels right.

Not when that person breathes and Sam…

Breathes, too.

Not when that person’s existence is the only reason he  _ wants  _ to exist, just to hear his voice again, to smell the woodsy scent of his cologne and the pure mix of whisky and gun oil, to see that smile, those lips, that body, arms, legs, feet, nose, eyes that put emeralds to shame…

There’s no one like him, Sam’s brother.

Sam’s… older brother.

No one. Not a soul.

No one will  _ ever  _ compare to the ray of light that is his brother. Yes, he has his issues. Everyone does. But there isn’t anyone that Sam would rather spend the rest of his dying days with than that man. 

It’s pathetic. Sam already knows this. 

He’s in love. With his brother. 

With Dean. 

And there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

No amount of begging, praying, crying makes a difference. He still wakes up, looks to his left, sees that beautiful face smoothed out from deep sleep, and his heart starts back up again. He remembers how to breathe again, how to think, how to feel, how to exist in the here and now while he watches, longing to reach out and touch. 

Just once. Just once, to touch his skin in a way that isn’t from a sparring match, or accidental. He wants to touch because he’s allowed to, because Dean wants him to run his hands over his plains, to steeple at the nape of his strong neck, ass in his lap shifting as Dean rocks them, mouth prying Sam’s open in his eagerness to taste. 

But… he’ll never have that. 

So why waste time thinking about it? Why stand out here in the middle of the afternoon, staring at the door to his salvation like it’ll disappear if he tears his gaze away for one second? 

It’s silly. He’s being silly. 

Stupid. 

Sam takes in a breath, adjusts his strap and lets himself into the motel room, closing the door behind him quietly. He spots Dean with his ankles crossed on the bed at the end immediately, arms behind his head, remote resting on his chest. 

The first thing Sam does is drop his bag on the floor, then makes his way over to the kitchen. He doesn’t hear Dean’s first words to him, too busy ignoring the scent of curdled milk crawling up his nose upon entry to the fridge. 

He does, however, hear his next words, Dean’s voice much closer to his ears than it had been a few seconds ago, body at an unsociable distance. He pushes the door shut while Sam’s holding onto it.

“Your dinner’s in the microwave. All you gotta do is heat it up. Don’t be expecting' Escargot or whatever it’s called. I’m no Martha Stewart,” Dean says, like he doesn’t actually care while he opens up the microwave and gestures inside it. 

“Thanks,” Sam replies, avoiding looking at him. He sets it up to heat for five minutes, hands on the counter, shoulders slumped. 

“Sure. You good, kid?” 

“Not a kid. I’m fine.” 

“Spoken like a true kid,” Dean teases. “So what happened, huh? Your cat die?”

Sam says nothing. 

“Someone give you a wedgie?”

Nothing. 

“A swirly? Purple nurple? Oh, my God, you didn’t catch the Janitor and the school Counselor bumping uglies in the supply closet, did ya?” 

“That’s oddly specific,” Sam comments, appreciating the distraction. 

“Yeah, well, this isn’t my trauma hour, Sam. Just tell me what happened, a’right? This might come as a surprise to you, but I’m, not in fact, a psychic.” 

“What was your first clue?” 

Dean clips him round the back of the head. “Don’t be a smartass. Tell me what’s up.” 

Sam has a choice to make. Either he can come up with some lie that he’s likely to be called out on after Dean’s gone away and thought about it, or risk humiliation when Dean learns that he’s angsting over not being asked to prom. Or, wanting to go to prom in general. 

Either way isn’t going to end well for him. He’s already torn up about it. Dean giving him a hard time over it is just going to make it worse. Lying to Dean isn’t going to do him any favours either. 

He’s screwed, regardless of what he does. 

He decides to tell the truth, thinking that if he rips the bandaid off now, he can start the healing process sooner. 

It goes about as well as he expects, Dean offering his opinion on what he thinks of prom altogether, how he thinks it’s a waste of time, something for the desperate and needy, for those that don’t realise that there’s nothing special about a school dance. He goes on about how he was asked by some girl. They never made it to prom. He fucked her in their cheap motel room that smelled of piss, sweat and rat poison. Sam was outside, in the car. Waiting. 

He didn’t return to the room. Instead, he wrapped Dean’s jacket tighter around his body, inhaled the scent of  _ DeanDeanDean  _ and tried not to cry as he fell asleep, wishing it was him in that room getting fucked nice and deep, long and hard. He wished it was him crying out Dean’s name, shredding his back with bruises, half-moons and dry blood like resin between the sharp lines on bark. He wished it was him forgetting how to walk, minus the leaving the room part. 

Oh, how he wished. 

“Prom is stupid, Sammy. These people are either gonna punch their v-cards and regret it the next day, or someone’s gonna spike the punch and they’ll all wake up with hangovers. Who would want that? You might as well—”

There’s a pause. Sam wasn’t fast enough to mask it, the hurt from Dean’s words, the reality that he’s  _ one  _ of those desperate and needy people. He didn’t want Dean to find out. Instead, he was prepared to laugh it off in his own way and move on with his life. That’s not to be. Not now. 

Dean’s looking at him, a confused set to his eyes, guilt evident underneath the layers of defences that would put the Great Wall to shame. Only problem is that it wasn’t great enough for the Mongolians, and it’s not great enough for Sam either, who always knows just where to look, how long to linger, never giving up until he finds a way through. 

Sam doesn’t want his brother to feel guilty. He wasn’t to know that Sam actually is  _ that  _ pathetic, that he’s that  _ starved  _ for the slightest bit of normalcy that he would be  _ excited  _ for the chance of getting to experience it. 

Prom…

He was foolish to even think for a moment that he could possibly be a part of that crowd, that he could say that he went to his high school prom and had a good time. He thought he’d share stories with someone someday about an embarrassing photo taken at the booth on prom night. Not of him. Of a friend of his. 

Friend. 

Yeah. That’s also a foreign concept. 

He made friends the first few times. Most of those inserted themselves into his life before he could do anything to stop it. They still were his friends, for a while. And then he moved onto the next town, and the next, and then next, and the next, and the next. By the time he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked through the gates of school number 15, he decided to put his walls up, block everyone out. 

Maybe it worked a little too well, and that’s why he’s standing here in the kitchen, shoulders drooping, eyes on the floor and frustration welling in his eyes. Maybe that’s why he feels the sting of tears for the first time in a long time. 

No. He can’t cry. Not in front of Dean. Winchester’s don't cry, they save their tears for their damn pillows or a funeral. 

“Sam… You didn’t wanna go to prom, did you?” 

He doesn’t answer. He shoulders past him and runs for the bathroom, locks himself inside and sits on the toilet seat. His cheeks burn with humiliation, fists clenching in anger, belly roiling in disgust for being so fucking weak. 

_ Knock, knock, knock.  _

“Sam? Sammy? Come on, man, open up. I was talkin’ outt’a my ass back there, okay? There’s nothin’ weird about wanting to go to prom, or whatever. I mean it. Y’gotta believe that, dude. And, so no one asked you? So what? It’s their damn loss if you ask me. I know they can’t expect you to be a handsome devil like myself, but Robin’s gotta get some every now and then, too.” 

On the one hand, Sam wants to believe the words that Dean is saying to him through the door, knuckles rapping on the wood intermittently. He wants to believe them because it would be so much easier if he could. He can’t, though. This could be bait. Sam wouldn’t put it past his brother to turn this into one big prank, and that’s not something he can deal with at this moment in time. 

“Sam? Come on, little brother.” 

On the other hand, there’s this almost undetectable hint of desperation in Dean’s tone that is causing Sam’s hand to itch to unlock the door and let him in. He’s not sure which side he should listen to. 

It’s not as though it will ruin him either way. It’s just fresh, still being processed. He would rather not take Dean’s ribbing when he can shut the world out instead, piecing himself back together one thread at a time.

“Look, Sam… If it really means that much to you… I’ll take you to your prom.”

Dean...  _ what _ ? He can’t be serious. There’s not a chance that the words that Sam just heard are genuine. So, he’s egging him on then. Great. Just what he needs. 

“I’ll take that to mean that you’re so overcome with emotion that you just don’t know how to respond. That’s fine. I have that effect on people.”

Yeah. Doesn’t Sam know it. He can’t count the number of times he’s been witness to women fawning over themselves at the bearest of handsome smirks from his brother. 

“Picture it. Me and you riding in on Baby, all eyes on her immaculate beauty. I get out of the car, open the door for you. I can be a gentleman when I want to, after all. Everyone is awestruck as they watch the breathtakingly handsome man take the hand of his not as handsome date. You could hear a pin drop as I walk you to the dance, jealous babes giving you the crazy eyes for upstaging them.”

Sam wishes he didn’t want that, wishes that he could gag at the thought of Dean leading him up to the dance, a possessive hand on his hip and eyes ablaze for anyone daring to look at him. It does the complete opposite, arousal surging in his groin, a moan rumbling up his throat at the visual of Dean tucking him closer to his side and cutting his eyes to some poor sap in warning. 

Why does he think this way? Why does he  _ want  _ that? Why does he want Dean to drag him away from everyone on the dance floor, pin him to the wall, bite  _ bruises  _ onto his neck and pull his collar down so that everyone can see them?

Fuck. He’s disgusting 

“Come on, Sammy. I’m tryin’ here. Give me somethin’, huh?” 

Dean’s voice rips him from his reverie, but it doesn’t wash away the acidic taste of bile on his tongue. 

He shouldn’t rise to it. It’s a bad idea no matter the outcome. Say it all goes well, Dean takes him to prom, they actually have a good time, they laugh and dance or… whatever—then what? Sam has actual memories of those moments with Dean that he has to contend with when he’s telling himself that he shouldn’t be thinking about his brother in that way, that he shouldn’t want Dean to cover his back with his chest, teeth at his neck and rough hands on his hips.

What is he supposed to do then? Laugh? Cry? Punch something? It’s not going to take away the sting of longing every time he catches a glimpse of Dean’s nude form after dropping his towel to change into a pair of boxers. Sam escapes into the bathroom at those times, rubbing one out on the toilet seat, feeling absolutely disgusted with himself as he imagines what it would be like to drop to his knees and taste Dean’s cock, feel it in the back of his throat, swallow around it—swallow what comes out of it. 

Sam shudders. He’s sick.

“For the sake of my ego, I’m assuming you’re already planning what you’re going to wear. I normally prefer that my dates don’t wear anything at all. Well, except a nice pair of panties, and, with that tiny little waist of yours, you might even pu—nevermind that. So, whaddya say you get your cute little butt out of there and go put on your favorite dress, huh? Come on, I know you’ve been holdin’ out on me. I won’t even laugh at the ruffles, I swear.” 

Sam doesn’t know if it’s Dean’s words that get to him or the situation itself, but he  _ just  _ starts laughing, into his hand at first and then out loud. He must be losing his mind. This must be the moment where it all goes to shit for him, even worse than it already was. Maybe Dean will assume that he’s been possessed by a demon and exercise him. 

Or try to. The Latin can take a few minutes to come back to him in those moments. 

He laughs for what feels like hours, when it’s really less than a minute. Dean knocks harder and calls his name louder, concern hidden in the teasing lilt to his voice. 

“What’s so funny, huh? You think because you’re less than an inch taller than me now that suddenly means you can lead, bitch?” 

Sam shakes his head, laughter dying down. 

“Sam? Dude, you better open up or I’m beatin’ this door down. Don’t think that I won’t.” 

There’s not a doubt in Sam’s mind that Dean’s telling the truth on that one. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’s damaged property to get to him. They really can’t afford to lose the deposit on this place, though. The money Dad left for them is running out, and Sam would rather Dean not risk getting into a life-threatening exchange if he hustles the wrong crowd to rake in some extra scratch. 

That decides it for him, body lifting off the seat without his permission, hand going to the door. He unlocks it and swings it open, breath catching in his throat at the sight of Dean’s angled arm on the doorjamb, shirt rising up to expose a strip of skin, making Sam’s mouth water. There’s relief in his eyes, masked by bravado, something Sam wouldn’t have caught onto if he had so much as blinked, and he’s smirking, devilish tongue coming out to run across his bottom lip, eyes running over Sam’s form. 

“If you want the full boyfriend package, Sammy, I’m gonna have to get us a nicer room, or clean out the backseat of my car,” Dean says, voice an earthy rumble, hand gesturing to the lack of space between them. 

Before the heat can rise to his cheeks in view of his brother, Sam shoulders Dean out of the way and makes a break for his duffel bag. “You’re an idiot.” 

“Oh, baby, don’t be shy. I’ll be gentle,” Dean teases further, making kissy noises at him. 

Sam throws a shoe at his face, and Dean catches it. 

The bastard. 

===

Agreeing to take Sam to prom probably isn’t the best idea when Dean’s already finding it harder each day not to jump the kid’s bones. He’s not going to,  _ obviously,  _ but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it. 

Daily.

Hourly. 

Secondly… 

If that’s a thing. 

Dean shakes his head, sniffs and shrugs on his leather jacket. This one is actually made to measure. 

Thank you, Sally Truman. 

Dad even let him keep the clothes after he was done getting what he needed from her, among other things. She was cute, in a mousy librarian kind of way. He’s pretty sure she wasn’t complaining when he blew town after the night he gave her. 

Not many would. 

The point is, he got to buy some nice clothes for once, and this jacket is the best takeaway. He got two pairs of jeans, too—one of which he’s lent to Sam for the night. 

Probably not a good idea, either. Not with the way they’re going to hug that mouth-watering ass of his. The shirt is gonna fit him like a glove, and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited about it.

Yeah, he hates himself, too. Get in line. 

On top of that, Sam’s thin little waist gets Dean every time he sees him without his top half covered, his fingers wanting to grip onto it, yank him back onto his hard cock, make Sam feel it like it’s deep in his guts. 

Fuck. He hates just how much he wants to bend his brother over every surface, how he wants to climb into bed with him, tear his clothes off and fuck him into the mattress— screw the risk of getting caught by their Dad in the next bed. 

Dean has always been a bit of an exhibitionist. Being seen by their Dad wouldn’t get his motor going, but he can’t imagine being able to stop once he’s tasted him once. Tasted all of that smooth flesh, held his hair between his fingers, pulled and pulled while he pounds into him, one hand over his mouth to keep in the screams. 

The image never fails to excite him, and he curses himself for having such a one-track mind. He’s doing this to cheer Sam up. Nothing destroys his mood worse than seeing Sam upset. The instant he saw the defeated set to his shoulders and lack of energy as he moped around the motel room, Dean knew something had happened. 

The solution? Make a total ass out of himself, scare Sam off into the bathroom, plead his case and somehow end up asking Sam to prom. Because that’s totally normal, asking your little brother to prom and all. 

Yeah. Dean’s the fucking poster child for normal, right? 

“Sammy? Get the led out, would ya’? Or pinch it off already. We gotta leave now if we wanna make good time.” 

As expected, Dean’s met with one of Sam’s famous bitch faces the moment he peers over his shoulder. He barely even registers it, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he takes in the image of Sam wearing his clothes—-his  _ worn  _ clothes. 

Shit. Sam’s gonna smell like him. 

Like them, mixed together. 

Dean puts as much snark into his  _ go wait in the car, Cinderella  _ as he can muster, waits for the door to close before taking in a calming breath, glares pointedly at his crotch and leaves the motel behind for the night. 

He’s got a hot date. 

A hot date with his not-so little brother that he wants to ravage. 

Great. 

Fantastic. 

Super. 

Awesome. 

...Fuck.

===

Up until the point where Dean joined him in the car, gunned the engine and said  _ prom’s’a’waitin’  _ like an idiot, Sam had his suspicions that this was all one big joke, and he was the reluctant butt of it. As it turns out, Dean had been deadly serious—-is deadly serious, singing his classic rock songs, drumming on the wheel, smacking Sam’s shoulder to get him to join in on the chorus. Sam does, meekly, taking in subtle whiffs of Dean’s intoxicating scent while willing his cock not to take an interest. 

It works for a few minutes. But then Dean turns his head and winks at him as he sings the first verse of AC/DC’s  _ Cover You in Oil,  _ and by the time he’s at  _ I like to run my hands up and down her legs, the way she dress, she look so fine, I'll make her wet, I'll make her mine [Gonna make her mine],  _ Sam’s straining in his jeans and the tip of his cock is wet and leaking. 

Dean’s too absorbed in the song to notice, gripping the steering wheel, thrusting out of the seat fractionally, plaguing Sam with the image of being seated on his lap, ass touching Dean’s balls, thighs and groin, squeezing around his girth. He has no idea how much he’s getting to Sam, who’s sweating up a storm, tugging at the collar of his shirt, running his slick palms down the denim of his thighs in the hopes they’ll come back dry. 

_ Pull on the zip, she give good lip service, it's nothing for the show, I just pay to see her go, she make you hot, you spray your lot—- _

Sam pleads for strength, mouth watering at the vision of getting on his knees, taking Dean’s hard, pulsing cock into his mouth, swallowing him down to the root, sucking and sucking until Dean’s bucking and  _ feeding  _ him his  _ lot.  _

_ She's kinda rough, she give it tough, come on honey and strut your stuff—- _

He can see his legs squeezing Dean’s waist, feel his back and ass ramming into the wall with each thrust of Dean’s hips, feel his knuckles pounding the wall as Dean’s shoves them back onto it, teeth at Sam’s throat, hips locking him in place. He can see Dean blanketing his back, one arm curved around his neck, thrusting deeper and deeper inside him. He can see Dean bending him over the crappy table in their even crappier motel, yanking his pants down with a grunt, spreading his asscheeks, spanking him with rough, quick swipes before eating him out like he’s all you can eat pie. 

And he can see himself grinding back, thrusting back, pushing back to let Dean know that he wants it, wants everything he wants to give him, wants to be everything that Dean is looking for and  _ more.  _

“Hey, Sammy, we’re here,” Dean says, bringing him back to reality, hand resting on his shoulder, nudging him. Sam wants to lean into it, but he stops himself, shrugging him off instead like he’s supposed to do. “You okay there, sport?” 

Sam side-eyes him at the moniker. 

“I’m fine.”

Dean licks his lips, purses them, stretches them out into their natural bow, all while nodding his head and giving Sam a mini heart attack. 

“Okay,” he replies, looking pensive. Whatever it is he’s thinking disappears in the next instance. “Don’t move,” he almost warns, holding his finger up before he gets out of the car. Sam’s will to not check out Dean’s ass crumbles instantly, eyes following Dean’s trail around the hood of the car, stopping on his beautiful face when he gets to the passenger side, where he opens the door up and extends his hand. 

“I’m not a gi--”

“Just take my damn hand, Sam. Christ,” Dean dismisses, raising an eyebrow at him. Sam takes the offered hand wearily, surprised by how gently Dean helps him out of the car, and then shocked by Dean’s hand moving to the small of his back to encourage him forward, ending over the curve of his hip. 

Sam doesn’t hear Dean locking the car, too engrossed by the many eyes turning to them, taking in the sight of both of them. They’re probably undressing Dean with their eyes right now while wondering how someone like him could even show his face with someone like Sam. 

As much as it irks him that they’re gazing longingly at his brother like he’s a piece of meat, he can’t say that he’s surprised. Dean gets attention wherever he goes. Anyone would be blind to not want a piece, as far as Sam is concerned. He just wishes he didn’t have to see it. 

Dean presses him closer to his side and turns his head to  _ talk  _ into his ear, making a real show of it as they walk up. He tells Sam to look out for all that jealousy, that they’re wishing they were them right now. Sam would freely agree that one part of that is true, but he can’t see how anyone would rather be in Dean’s position, to have him on their arm. 

When they reach the doors, Sam feels a little victorious, even if Dean is here out of pity and not because he wants to be. 

They both sign in, hang up their jackets and make their way to the bleachers after grabbing a drink from the punchbowl which Dean wrinkles his nose at. There are a lot of kids dancing. Not well. But they’re having a good time, so who is Sam to judge? 

“So this is prom, huh?” Dean gestures around the hall with his cup. “Could be worse.” 

“We can go if you want,” Sam offers, regretting ever mentioning it.

“No, no. This is fine. It’s… It’s… Something,” Dean replies, with a shake of his head. “The music could use some work.” 

Sam grins. “I knew you’d say that.”

“Well, it sucks.” 

“You’re not wrong.” 

“Don’t I know it. Where's your Van Halen, Metallica, AC/DC, huh? What even is this shit?” 

“None of those things, apparently.” 

Dean’s face twists in disgust as  _ My Heart Will Go On  _ comes on, fake gagging. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” 

An eyeroll is the appropriate response, and Sam doesn’t disappoint. 

“Bathroom’s that way,” Sam snarks, pointing to the right. “It’s not that bad. It’s just not your thing.”

Dean gives him a quizzical look, steps in, leans until his lips are brushing the shell of Sam’s ear. “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, this isn’t you coming out to me about being a diehard Titanic fan, is it? I couldn’t think of anything worse.” 

In his many years being Dean’s younger brother, Sam has learnt when to argue. This is not one of those times. The more he fights, the more Dean will harp on about it, so it’s in his best interest to ignore him, just as he’s struggling to ignore pure  _ Dean  _ filling his senses and making him weak in the knees. 

Thankfully, Dean backs away to take a few pulls of his drink, making a face at the sweet taste. Sam nurses his, quietly, not sure if this was such a good idea after all. 

They’re both standing around, sticking out like sore thumbs, taking up space. Dean looks like he’s searching for things to talk about, shaking his head when he disagrees with his train of thought. Sam’s just glad that he’s not checking out the  _ many  _ girls here. Not that he would stop him if he wanted to get up in their business, but he did agree to take  _ Sam  _ to prom, not them.

What are they supposed to do now, though? Sam doesn’t know the procedure when it comes to prom. Dean didn’t, in fact, go to his, so he’s clearly just as clueless as Sam is. He wonders if he should suggest making a break for it again. What’s the point, after all? They could stand around doing nothing at home and it would make literally no difference. 

Well, not home. They don’t have a home. 

Just each other. 

===

Dean’s man enough to admit that he’s out of his element here. He doesn’t do dances or proms or dressing up or whatever. But it’s Sam, so… He’ll deal with it, even if the music is crap, the drinks are shit and none of these kids can  _ actually  _ dance. They look like a bunch of Penguins flapping their little… wings? Whatever they are don't matter—they look like  _ that,  _ is his point. 

Even so, Dean owes it to Sam to show him a good time. He’s his date, after all. And as his date, it’s his responsibility to make Sam’s night. Unlike his other dates, sadly, he can’t screw his brains out at the end of the night, or at least get a few kisses out of him. 

Fuck. What he wouldn’t give to make Sam’s toes fucking curl. Just once. Just so see his flushed, sweaty face all fucked out from having Dean ramming his cock up his ass again and again, have Sam telling him how deep he is, how good he feels being stretched out on his cock, how he wants Dean to come inside him, make him his, show everyone else he’s off-limits. 

Dean nearly chokes on his next pull, swallows the rest and crushes his cup in his hand. Sam sends him a disapproving glance when he goes to lob it somewhere off to the right, so he sets it down on the seat instead, abandoning the idea of uncrushing it as quickly as it came. He's not a miracle worker. 

It's not often that Dean is nervous. On this occasion, he's shitting a fucking brick. It's  _ Sam  _ for crying out loud.  _ His  _ Sammy, and they're on some kind of pseudo date, and he can't think of anything to say to the kid. What is he supposed to say? Wanna dance, come back to his place so he can fuck Sam into the mattress? Yeah, that'll go over well. Poor Sam doesn't even know that his perverted older brother is staring at his neck and wishing his marks were tattooed on all that soft flesh. 

Dean needs to get it together. This is prom. It's Sam's  _ last  _ and  _ only  _ prom that he's going to go to, so all this sissy shit aside, he needs to show him a good time---needs to give him one good memory to take away from this place, this school, their fucked up lives. And, yeah, maybe it will do him some good, too, to think back on a moment where Sam was smiling and free and full of happiness. 

That's what Dean wants to see. No, he  _ needs  _ to see it. He needs to see those dimples flashing at him as Sam laughs or sings a shitty tune or smiles because he can't help himself. There's nothing else in the world that he cares about more than seeing his little brother happy, so he's just got to stop worrying about useless bullshit and do his job. 

His one job. 

"Sam, finish your drink, would ya'? I'm not done showing these dumbasses what they're missing out on."

Sam frowns, unconvinced. 

Dean rolls his eyes, places his palm at the bottom of Sam's cup and tells him to open wide. Sam glares at him over the rim, even as he works his edible throat to swallow the sweet liquid pooling in his mouth. Dean can't believe he's jealous of punch. 

Oh, wait. Yes he can. Because it's Sam. 

After what feels like forever, Sam chugs back the rest of his drink. Dean takes the empty from him and sets it next to his compacted one. If he were someone that stood there and analysed shit, he might say that the state of the cups represents them, in that he's kind of got no direction, shoots from the hip and fucks the system, while Sam has a good head on his shoulders, plans his actions carefully and is way more of a boy scout, at least when it comes to authority figures. 

Nerd. 

Loveable nerd. 

Without really thinking about it, he takes Sam's hand into his own. He stomps down the feeling of  _ right  _ that bubbles in his stomach and leads Sam out to the dance floor, making sure Sam's at least a pace behind him. He's better off there, really. 

With Sam looking the way that he does in Dean's clothes---well, let's just say that the urge to pin him to the floor and fuck him through it went up several notches. Several, several notches, he might add. Staying in front of Sam is the only thing stopping him from grabbing two handfuls and squeezing, he swears.

Sam had to have a nice, round ass on top of his gorgeous face, didn't he? Dean can't catch a break. 

After Sam's last growth spurt, he filled out real nice. Dean is a victim of that, the curve toying with him whenever he sees it. He pretends not to be taking his fill, of course, like the good Christian that he is, but he's only human. So he looks when Sam's not paying attention, when he doesn't know that he has no business being the definition of sin, elbows on the counter, flipping through the pages of his book of the week, that  _ ass  _ sticking out, taunting Dean, flooding him with thoughts of getting his tongue, lips and teeth all over it. 

It'd be the best thing Dean's ever eaten. That he's sure of. He may love pie to the moon and back, but Sam comes before anything. 

Even breathing. 

Dean doesn't let go of Sam's hand when they've joined some crowd, at first. He puts his arm around Sam's shoulders instead, fingers flirting with his collarbone through his shirt as he tells him to look around and tell him what he sees. 

"People dancing? A DJ? What else is there?" 

"Really look, dude," Dean tells him, and when Sam continues to look like he's come down with a serious case of constipation, Dean clicks his tongue and gives him the answers. "Look over there. Do you see that? She's looking at you, kid. Same as that dude over there, that girl, the hot blonde, the curvy brunette," he says, hoping he succeeded in keeping the anger out of his voice. 

Sam still looks deeply confused, acting as if Dean's making shit up. 

"I'm pretty sure they're staring at you, Dean," Sam finally replies, shoulders sagging. 

"You kiddin' me?" Dean can't believe how little confidence Sam has in his appearance. His little brother is the most beautiful human being on the planet, and Dean would fight anyone that suggested otherwise. The thought that Sam can't even bring himself to believe that these yahoos wouldn't give him the time of day doesn't sit right with Dean at all. Not one bit. It's crazy talk, if you ask him. "You think I'm lyin' to ya'? What good would that do, huh?"

"It's fine. I'm the new guy, so---"

"So nothing. They're just nervous because they don't think they have a shot with you. That's all, man. Go and find out for yourself. Come on, you know how to talk to people, right?" 

Sam's bitchface is his answer. 

Dean smirks. "Right. So get your butt over there and start making some memories," he challenges, swallowing the envy burning in his chest as he thinks about any of these rejects getting to touch all of that skin, find out what he tastes like, how soft his tongue is, how he breathes when he's close. It's not something he should ever think about, but he's wanted to be the one to discover it since Sam became the young, breathtaking man that's standing in the space between his arms, looking all types of uncertain about Dean's plan. 

Well, too bad. Big brother knows best, so Dean shoves him in the direction of a group of people and gives him the double thumbs up when he looks over his shoulder, masking the pain in his eyes. 

He needs a  _ real  _ drink.

===

Sam tries to listen to what they're saying. He can't, though, eyes drifting far too often to Dean standing off on his own by the bleachers, raising his cup encouragingly each time Sam catches his gaze. Sam doesn't want to be with these people. He wants to be with Dean. He doesn't need them to  _ come on  _ to him or whatever, even if it would be nice, if only so he can recall a time that someone took an interest in him, however brief. 

He just doesn't care, feeling more put-off by the smiles and hair curls than he probably should be. But they're not Dean. They're not the person he wants laughing at whatever it is that he said that they happened to find funny. They're not the person he wants to lean in close or leave lingering touches on his shoulder, side, back, neck. They're not the person he wants to breathe in, absorb into himself, exist in their space for the rest of his life. 

They're not Dean, so they don't matter. 

Sam was raised right, so he responds to what they're saying, and he engages as much as he can. He dodged the question about Dean entirely, not wanting to reveal that they're brothers. Instead, he offered that Dean is a friend of his cousins who agreed to take him to prom because no one asked, which received this look of pity that left a bad taste in Sam's mouth. He hadn't been looking for any pity when he made up that half-truth (the best kind to not arouse suspicion), just needed a diversion to their obvious inclinations that he and Dean are a thing. 

It worked, he thinks. They haven't brought it up again, not that he's been the greatest listener this entire time. 

A while into the conversation, a young man with dark hair who Sam forgets the name of leans into his space and asks him if he wants to dance with him. Sam doesn't know how to respond. His instinct is to say no, thank you and move on with his night, maybe sneak away from the crowd and join Dean by the bleachers. 

His decision is taken from him when a hand lands on one shoulder and a strong chin leans on the other one. "I'm gonna take Sam back for a bit, if you guys don't mind. I promised him at least one dance, and I'll never hear the end of it if I don't make good on that, so…" 

Sam doesn't question it. He allows Dean to lead him away, heart in his throat and body heating up from something other than the strobe lights and room filled with writhing bodies. 

"Dean, what are you doing?" 

"You and me are gonna dance."

"Why?"

"Because I just said I promised you a dance," Dean replies, like Sam's a moron for not getting it. 

"Whatever." 

Dean grits his teeth when a slow song comes on, face hard as he extends his hand. Sam stares at it like it will bite him if he gets too close, which apparently irks Dean more. His brother grabs his hand and pulls him against his body, placing one hand on his hip and the other holding both their connected hands out to the side. 

"I told you you're the girl so get your hand on my shoulder, bitch." 

Sam does as he's told and steps on Dean's foot. "Sure thing, jerk." 

"You did that on purpose," Dean says fondly and dances with zero rhythm. Sam matches him with little to no effort. Off and on the field, Sam has been moving to the beat of Dean's drum from the day he saw the greenest pair of eyes he'll ever see in his life, from now and in perpetuity, so even keeping up with his less than graceful steps is child's play, for him. 

Eventually, Sam assumes they don't look like two monkeys circling a campfire, and he risks tucking his head in the crook of Dean's shoulder. He can't explain why he does it, what possessed him. But he does, and, by some miracle, Dean doesn't push him away, stepping forward as he steps back, to the side in-sync, round and round. Sam loses himself in the motion, inhaling greedy nosefuls of Dean, the smell sending him to that place that exists between the here and now where he feels safe, warm and loved. 

The song ends. Sam doesn't let go, clinging onto the moment for as long as he can, not caring that they look like idiots stuck in this embrace. He'll gladly stay here, pressed this close to Dean until his brother decides that it's enough. He would feel embarrassed if he weren't so happy. He would be disgusted with himself if he didn't feel like the sun was shining for the first time, Dean's firm body aligned with his, Dean's hand squeezing his and pulling him closer. 

Sam doesn't have the slightest clue why Dean's letting him have this but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. That would be stupid. But really, why is Dean letting him have this? 

Almost without his consent, Sam moves back and the hand in his moves to his other hip. It stills there, along with its twin, just holding Sam gently, the bearest of pressure present. It feels more like a caress, Sam's world crashing around him when he feels soft sweeps of Dean's thumbs up his sides. 

Dean's staring at him intently. Sam's not even sure he hears the music, hears anything, like the two of them are the only entities existing in this space, and maybe they are. Maybe Sam's been asleep this whole time. It would make sense, given how amazing his day panned out, so far, after the initial upset. 

"Sammy…" Dean says, and his nickname rolling off Dean's tongue sounds like a request as much as a promise. But what is he asking for? What is this moment that's happening between them? There's a heat in Dean's eyes that he's never noticed before. At least, not directed at him. There's something blocking him from pinpointing exactly  _ where  _ he has seen it, his hands reaching but hitting a wall. 

A wall of what? Anticipation? Regret? Self-loathing? Hesitancy? Sam doesn't know. But it feels suspiciously like the material of Dean's shirt encasing his firm chest, warm under Sam's palm. Oh shit. He's touching Dean. This isn't normal. How can he explain this? He needs to run, but he can't, Dean's hands clenching on his hips, pulling him tighter against him, lips at his ear again, laboured breathing ghosting through his canal, sending sparks of arousal all around his body. 

Sam can feel himself getting sucked into the vortex, arms folding around Dean's back, pressing them even closer together. Dean's breathing gets deeper, and Sam feels one of his hands twitching, second-guessing its movements. And then it's shifting, taking one half of his ass in its hold, squeezing, a groan from Dean's throat sending all of the blood rushing to his cock, his hardness meeting Dean's in the center as the hand on his ass pulls him in closer, ensuring that there's no space that exists between them. 

"Dean?..." 

Sam doesn't know what he's asking for. Forgiveness? A way to rationalise this? An answer as to whether or not it's too late to go back? Why this is happening at all? All he can say is that one name that brings him comfort, that reminds him that he's alive and at least one person out there would care if he went missing. All he can do is hold fast to the figure in his arms that makes him feel safe above all else. All he can do is wish that this isn't all one big dream, that if he pinches himself, he won't suddenly wake up with soiled boxer shorts. 

"What are we doin', Sammy, huh?" Dean whispers, and he sounds like he's in pain, at war with his own sense of self over this. Could it be that he's not the only dog in this fight? All this time, have they both been blinded by their debilitating disgust for their true feelings to see that the other half is hurting? Has Sam been so bogged down in his self-reproach that he never even noticed the other half to his soul has been crying out for his company?

Whether it's right or not, sane or not,  _ legal  _ or not (not that it would be the first law in a long list that they've broken), don't they owe it to themselves to give it a shot? To find solace in each other, if that's what they both want? 

Dean's not pushing him away. He's not pretending this never happened. He's not making a joke about being a bunch of girls or teasing Sam for holding on. No, Dean is  _ hard  _ and Dean feels like everything Sam could ever want and more, his warm breath on Sam's ear and neck, his hands firm on Sam's hip and asscheek, grinding them together, Sam's trapped cock gliding over Dean's prominent erection straining against his jeans feeling like the first ray of sunlight on a sunny day after a storm: perfect.

Sam moans, and Dean thrusts his hips, twists to draw out the drag that has Sam losing his balance, falling against him. Dean accepts his weight, doesn't falter, teeth nipping at his ear, that hand on his ass veering to the center, rough fingers pushing on the fabric, rubbing over his untouched hole. Sam jerks in Dean's hold, soundlessly begging for more. 

He gets what he wants, that mouth at his ear suddenly closing over his own, plump lips not giving him any time to catch up before his mouth is being stretched open. A warm, slick tongue thrusts inside, grazing over his, tasting him, mapping him, the hand on his hip moving up to seal over the nape of his neck and guide his head to deepen the kiss. 

Sam's had a couple of kisses in his life. They were okay. They did the job, but none of them had him losing his grip on reality like Dean's tongue is doing. None of them had him feeling famished at the same time he feels full to bursting.

There's no other choice but to surrender to Dean's artful tongue, his fingers flexing on the fabric of Dean's shirt, his crotch intent on starting a fire between them as he ruts and grinds, feeling like a teenager discovering his dick for the first time. Dean pushes their hips together, forces himself against him harder and harder, teeth digging into his bottom lip, slick tongue fucking in and out of his mouth, stealing his breath. 

Dean's breath fans across his top lip, bumps and slides with his nose as he presses on, steering Sam's head back, abandoning the perch on his ass as to bring both hands to his face. He tilts him this way and that, rolling his devious hips to grind their trapped cocks together as he simultaneously breathes life into Sam's soul and shortens his lifespan with each press of those bowed lips. 

The kiss is hungry, all of their hidden desperation coming to the surface, Dean's fingers painting red hues on the skin of his jaw and behind his ears. He breaks the kiss, takes one moment to ask for something. Permission? Acceptance? For Sam not to abandon him? Sam has no idea, but he nods his head anyway and tries not to scream when Dean's lips descend on his neck. 

Everything is too much and not nearly enough, Dean's lips sending little currents of bliss through his skin, his body singing gleefully with each suck, each scrape of teeth, each lingering press. He holds his breath through it, clinging on for dear life as Dean sucks his blood up to the surface, tilts his head back and licks a line up the length of his throat, marking the space below his chin. Sam keens when Dean's hands pat down his body, letting him feel every second of his descent until there's a hand slipping down the back of his jeans. 

"Dean…" 

Dean breathes against his neck, kisses him where he just left another mark. He squeezes the flesh in his hold, moves to the other side to groan into his skin and nose his pulse point. "I don't wanna stop. But if you don't want this, you gotta tell me now, Sam." 

"Is this real?" Sam asks, ashamed of his weakness. 

Dean lines up their noses and gives him one small chaste kiss. 

"Real as all hell, sweetheart."

"You really want this? Want… me?" Sam has to ask, even though he's afraid of the answer. 

In retaliation, Dean grinds their groins together and kisses Sam long and deep. 

"Course not. It's perfectly normal for older brothers to get chubbies when their little brother stands too close," Dean replies, shaking his head. "There's nothing I want more than you, Sammy. Nothin'. Not pie. Not m'girl. Not nothin'. And if you want me back, don't stop me. If you don't, tell me now." 

Sam's done hesitating. If this is a dream, it's the best one of his life, so what would be the harm in finally getting lost in it? 

"I wanna be yours, Dean. Only yours," Sam gets out through the ball of spit stuck in the back of his throat. His brother's response is almost animalistic in nature, Dean's other hand slipping down the back of Sam's jeans and securing his other cheek, squeezing and kneading as Dean grinds and grinds, the drag making Sam's eyes roll back in his head. He pants on to Dean's shoulder, letting Dean take his weight, keeping them both standing as he tells Sam he's his and everyone will know it, humping against him, almost lifting him off the ground with the force. 

Before Sam knows it, his back is hitting a solid wall and his legs are being hoisted up. He instinctively locks them around Dean's waist, head lolling from the assault on his neck and the delirium inducing strokes of Dean's denim-clad cock over his. He can feel his body driving up the wall with every thrust, hear the rub of fabric, smell the arousal building in the air. There's a change in Dean's breathing, the hands on his ass dragging him back onto every shove, every curl, every gyration that has him biting off Dean's name and wondering if he'll ever have the capacity for any other word again. 

Not that any other words matter to him. 

Sam's toes curl in his shoes. His face heats, his hair sticks to his forehead. He can't put into words how good it all feels, how Dean pressing against him, marking him, claiming him as his has him feeling like he hit the jackpot. Euphoria dances under and above his skin, the need for naked contact surging with each pounding of his back on the wall. He wants to feel all of Dean, wants to feel every inch of his skin pressed on his, wants to have Dean completing them, filling him up with his cock and taking them to the edge of the earth, leaning over the precipice and debating whether or not they should freefall. 

"Excuse me, boys," a voice says, and Dean's hips still. 

"What?" he snaps. 

"I'm afraid you're getting a little… carried away, so I'm going to have to ask you to leave," the person replies, and Sam tries not to laugh or cry or both. 

"Works for us," Dean tells them, rudely, and Sam can sense his reluctance when he lets him drop to the floor. "Come on, Sammy, let's blow this popsicle stand."

"Sure," Sam agrees, embarrassed. He warms a moment later when Dean grabs his hand and all but drags him to the exit, impatiently paces as they wait for their jackets, and then hauls Sam out of the prom and into the night. "Dean?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Are you okay?" 

"Okay? I'm more than okay. I couldn't do what I wanted to you in there, anyway, so it's for the best." 

Sam swallows hard. "And what's that?" 

Dean leads him to the car and props him up on the hood, teeth at his throat again. "You're about to find out," he says huskily, biting his lip. "And when we have time, I'll take you apart piece by piece, and maybe, if you're lucky, I'll put you back together again." 

A shiver runs down Sam's spine and he squirms. "Like Humpty Dumpty?" 

"Baby, all the king's horses, men, and whatever else would never be enough," he almost purrs, sliding his hands under Sam's legs and pulling him back, settling between the spread. "Now, you have two choices. We can either go back to the motel or—-"

"No motel. Here. Now, please," Sam replies, desperate, hands seeking Dean's neck, his cheeks, his hair. He leans into him, licks a line up to his ear and Dean's throat whirs, head going limp, letting Sam kiss and lick the salt off his skin as his fingers rake up Sam's back, pressing, squeezing, finding spots that make Sam buck. "God, Dean… Please. I want this—-you… You can do anything you want to me." 

"Jesus Christ, Sammy," Dean groans, burying his face in Sam's neck and breathing him in deep. He yanks him off the hood and shifts them around to the middle of the car. Sam keeps up his attack on Dean's neck, wanting to make his own claim on his brother, wanting to know that when he looks at those spots he'll see a part of himself there. "You don't know what you're asking for, baby boy," Dean says, the nickname making Sam almost whine. "I don't know if you're ready for all that."

"I trust you," Sam implores him, spine breathing into the backseat as Dean lowers him down, the door thrown wide, Dean's hands crawling up his sides. Sam bends forward to assist Dean in whipping his shirt off. He tries not to cover himself, frozen under the reverent bottle-green gaze directed at him. At his chest, his waist, his navel, nipples, neck and arms. Dean's diving in then, tasting him, breathing wet and hot over a dusky nub before sealing his lips and rolling his sinful tongue. 

Sam arches up into him, and Dean's hands press him down into the seat, teeth dragging over his nipple, fingers bruising his side. Sam doesn't care that it hurts. He wants to remember this for the rest of his life. He wants Dean to unravel him, break him, reshape him, grind him down until he's nothing but pure instinct. 

And Dean seems to be on the same track, fingers curling into the waistband of Sam's jeans, sparing one moment to pop the button before they're being wrenched off him and chucked over the passenger seat, along with his shoes, boxers soon following. Dean's hand wraps around Sam's cock. He strokes him, looks up to stare into his eyes, searching—-he's always searching for something. He never has to ask. 

Without warning, Dean shuffles back, licks over the slit of Sam's cock once and then takes him into the wet, warm prison of his mouth. Sam claps a hand over his lips and tries not to drive off the seat. Dean takes his balls in his palm and fondles them as he swallows halfway down his cock, bobbing his head, lips dragging almost violently over his sensitive crown. Sam's toes curl, his teeth bite into the skin of his hand and he wills his feet not to kick out. 

The slick squelch coming from inside Dean's mouth is so dirty, but Sam's never been more turned on his life. His cock pulses, his thighs quiver, his toes curl and he forgets where they are, Dean's name entering his bloodstream through the teeth indentations on his palm as Dean takes him in further, swallows harder, moans around him. 

Sam's ass clenches, opening and closing around nothing, wanting to feel Dean's fingers—-anything. As if answering his prayers, Dean's hand slips between his cheeks and nudges at his hole, dry pads of thick fingers running small laps around the crease, not pushing in, not wet enough to give him what he wants. 

Dean keeps him locked in the clutch of his throat, freehand smoothing up Sam's front, tweaking a nipple. He swivels his head then, Sam's cock being pulled each way as tight lips drag over his hardness, Dean's neck muscles working, stripping Sam of his sanity with every slide. 

His whole body is shaking, his hands running through his hair, nails biting his cheeks on the way down, clutching the head of the seat to keep in his screams. Dean doesn't stop, tight seal meeting the soft curls around Sam's groin again and again. 

"Fuck—-Dean." 

Sam's cock disappears in and out of Dean's mouth with no end in sight, and Sam can feel his balls drawing up, knows that he's not going to be able to last much longer. Dean curls his hand around the base of Sam's cock, lips smacking the crook of his fingers with each thrust down. Sam's crying out that he can't hold it, that he's going to come--that Dean needs to pull off. His brother doesn't. He draws his lips up to the swollen, leaking head and performs short, pulsing jerks of his head, flat of his tongue pushed up against the underside, lips billowing, ready. 

Dean locks eyes with Sam and that's all he can take, pleasure shooting up from the base of his cock to the tip, his crown swelling and draining as he empties his load into Dean's mouth, who swallows all of it, tips of his fingers still stroking over Sam's hole—-still working him through it until the last contraction of his throat. Sam's cock slips free then, stomach muscles pulsing, whole body vibrating as his head drops back on the seat. 

He feels his knees being pushed back, feels the tip of Dean's tongue brush over his hole, feels the imprints of Dean's fingers on his thighs as Dean starts mouthing at his entrance, not giving him a second of breath, tongue licking inside him. Sam spasms around him, hips jerking, hands looking for something to grab onto as he tries to remember anything other than the sensation of Dean's stubble scraping his taint as his hot, wet tongue pushes inside him and tastes. 

"Fuck," Dean says, hissing. "Better than any pussy I've ever eaten," he adds, plunging his tongue in deep. "Yeah, look at that. Your body just opens right up for me, don't it?" 

Sam curses under his breath, spreads his legs wider for Dean, giving him the freedom to stroke two eager thumbs over his hole, pushing in and bearing down. "Oh fuck. Dean—-"

"Don't worry, baby. I'm gonna take good care'a you." There's not an ounce of uncertainty in Dean's voice, gooseflesh rising on Sam's skin as Dean rests his nose on Sam's taint and fucks his tongue into him, using his thumbs to keep Sam open.

A gasp falls out of him when Dean bends him in half, arms folding around his middle, hands steepling on his groin. Dean pitches up and licks from the 'v' of Sam's ass to his hole, circles his tongue, fucks it in over and over, sucks one of Sam's balls into his mouth and then ravishes Sam's hole like he's starving for it, spit running down Sam's thighs and balls, Dean's lips making wet, sloppy sounds as he mouths his rim and strokes his tongue over him roughly, making him feel  _ all  _ of it. 

Sam's flutters around him and Dean pulls him up as he spreads him open, teeth scraping his taint, nose pressing down on the nerve, heightening the sensations flooding Sam's body. His cock is starting to harden again, the fastest recovery time of his life and Dean's not even shirtless yet, jaw working to push his tongue as far as will go, breaching the ring of Sam's anus, barricaded by the soft pink of his insides. 

The idea of being rimmed had come up once or twice during Sam's fantasies, especially after watching Dean practically make love to apple pie with his mouth, moaning agreeably after each bite, grinning at Sam when he shot him looks his brother had no idea were heated for a different reason. So he wondered to himself what it would be like to be spread bare, a meal for Dean to feast on. He struggled with the concept of Dean wanting to… eat him out because, well, you know, but it seems that his worries meant absolutely nothing. 

Dean lets go of his hold on his middle and folds his body back until his knees are touching his shoulders. Two hands come down on his ass then, fingers spreading his cheeks, a line of saliva tipping over Dean's tongue and falling like a waterfall. He can feel it pool around his hole, feel one of Dean's fingers pushing it inside him, advancing until he's touching base. 

For a few moments, Dean fucks that finger into him. Then, his forehead rests on one of Sam's upturned cheeks. "I really wanna fuck you, Sam. Fuck, I don't know how much longer I can—-"

"Then don't." Sam tingles when Dean presses a deep kiss onto the flesh of his ass, hole clenching around the finger inside him. He's done this enough to himself that he knows what to expect, the odd dirty, bad, wrong feeling dissipating as Dean gets a rhythm going, second knuckle bumping his prostate on the way back. Sam chews his lip and groans. "Please don't wait any longer. I want this—-I want you to fuck me… I want your cock in me, Dean."

"You're killin' me," Dean bites out as he sucks a bruise on tepid flesh. "Absoutely fuckin' killin' me. You'll be the death of me, y'know that?" 

Sam reaches out and gets a hand on Dean's head, enjoying the softness under his touch. "So save us both from imminent demise and fuck me already." 

"Fuck," Dean groans, butts his head on Sam's ass. "I shouldn't. Not yet, at least."

"You're worried I'll regret it." The soft stroke of a tongue over his hole tells him he's right, Dean going back to spearing him with the wet muscle while Sam talks, taking pauses so as to not cut off his plea with a sharp cry. "I'm not gonna regret it, Dean. Not ever. I told you you can do whatever you want, so what's stopping you?" 

"The reality is sinking in, dude. I still have the taste of your cum in my mouth," Dean says to Sam's crease, not meeting his eyes at all. "And I want to take it to the next step. God help me, I want to bury my cock in your ass, Sam, but I can't take the thought of you wakin' up tomorrow and…"

"And what, Dean? Hating you?"

"Yeah," Dean supplies with a shrug, absentmindedly slotting two fingers in Sam's body, eyes tracking the movement of them being swallowed up with no resistance, Sam thinks. Dean frowns then. "Sammy, you haven't… Done this before, have you?" 

Sam shakes his head so fast the car spins in his vision. "What? No. Never. Not with anyone. I've only ever wanted you in this way. Please, Dean." 

With every thrust in, Sam's feels his hole expanding, contracting, making room for something much bigger, something he hopes Dean's willing to give him. It's just like Dean to have an existential crisis right when  _ all  _ of Sam's dreams are about to come true. 

A few minutes pass, Dean prepping him diligently, a half pensive, half smitten look on his face as he focuses on his task, Sam's cock twitching and gliding over his chest as Dean's thrusts turn into hard stabs that rip Sam's elation out of his throat and tear through the car's interior like an echo. There's no way the prom attendees can hear them over the music, but the thought crosses his mind, when he has a second where he's not moaning or begging for Dean to please fuck him. 

Finally, Dean says the words that Sam's been dying to hear. "Turn over. Get your pretty little ass in the air for me." Without giving it a second thought, Sam waits for Dean to give him the space to shift onto his front and presents his ass like… well, a whore. He's waited a long time for this. 

Too long. 

He hears shuffling. Dean's zipper lowers at the same time the button pops, fabric rustling. Dean's hand sweeps up the slope of his back, stopping at the space between his shoulders. There's fumbling somewhere, followed by _a_ _ ha  _ of victory. A cap flips open, liquid dripping onto his crack soon after. It's pushed into him, spread around him. He hears and smells Dean's arousal, feels the blunt tip at his entrance and he almost cries with relief when Dean pushes into him for the first time. 

Hands curl into fists, breaths become controlled as he accepts Dean into his body, imagining a hot knife stabbing through butter, gasping when his ass touches base, Dean's thighs against his own, balls sticking to his perineum. He's never felt so full, and he didn't know he really needed it until now, this overwhelming sensation of  _ right  _ settling into his core as Dean starts up shallow thrusts, allowing Sam to adjust to the intrusion bit by bit, telling him how good he's gonna make him feel, how he's gonna keep his promise. 

Sam doesn't doubt that he will. Dean's cock pulls out and slides back in. There's friction at first, and Sam feels it in his throat, feels the mixture of pain and pleasure setting his nerves on fire every time Dean bottoms out inside him, every time he feels Dean's thick cockhead breach one new barrier at a time. 

Dean curses behind him, commends him for feeling tight and perfect and looking so hot with his ass stuffed full of cock. Sam doesn't know what he looks like, unaware that he's even arched his back before Dean tells him he's a natural, hands smoothing over the dip, thumbs bearing down on the two dimples, massaging down to the tissue as he grips his hips with the rest of his hands and drags him back onto his cock. 

Sam cries out and slaps his hand on the window, brings it back to hook around Dean's neck and leans back onto him. Dean lavishes his throat with tender kisses, his hips rolling in languid circles that rob Sam of his critical thinking abilities, his eyes unfocused, hazy as Dean fucks him slow and deep while bruising his back and branding his neck with marks he wishes would never fade.

"Christ, Sam. You feel so fuckin' good around my cock," Dean tells him, voice hoarse, hands tightening their grip, jerking him back, the force of their flesh meeting punctuating each snap. 

"Dean," he says in response, the only word on his lips, and his brother thrives on it, picking up the pace, spreading his legs out with his knees and fucking into him with ease, one hand coming up to twist in his hair and pull. Sam moans at the tug, eyes watering from pain or pleasure—-he has no idea. All he knows is that he loves it, Dean's body driving into him, Dean's cock splitting him open, Dean's hands pressing wounds blood deep. 

He pulls out then, and Sam tells himself not to panic, not to obsess and assume that Dean's decided he can't go through with it. He doesn't have to wait long before his body is being manhandled onto his front, pulled until his ass is hanging over the edge of the seat and Dean's lining up his cock and fucking back into the hilt. 

Dean blankets his body, fucks into him in ripples and gyrations, dragging every thrust out, spearing Sam's insides, leaving him practically boneless. Lips cover his own but he doesn't have the energy to participate, letting Dean thrust his tongue into his mouth as he slow-grinds into him.

Sam whines then, against Dean's mouth, offended by the material rubbing his chest. Dean snickers, leans back to remove his shirt, taking the opportunity to lift one of Sam's legs up and rest it on his shoulder. The position allows him to get deeper, and he kisses a line up Sam's leg, worshipping him.

That's when Sam realises that this isn't sex. It hasn't been sex from the start. Sex is dirty, quick, a means to an end. This whole time Dean's been saying words that he doesn't think he can say out loud, preferring to express them with his lips, his mouth, his hands, fingers, cock. It's in every press of his lips on the skin of Sam's leg. It's the gentle motion of his cock grinding into him, hands making sure Sam's hips are angled so that he's nailing his prostate on almost every stroke. It's in the way Dean sucked his cock like Sam would die if he held back a single thing. It's in the way he swallowed everything he had to give him without batting an eyelash. It's in the way he spent so much time working him open (and over), not stopping until Sam was loose and entirely too willing. 

From the moment their lips touched for the first time, Dean has been telling Sam how he feels, in his own way. In his… Dean way, driving into him with precision, nudging him along the seat and then pulling him back down, kissing him in between bouts of spine-tingling thrusts that make Sam forget what year is it for a moment. 

"Sam. You feel too good. I'm gonna fuckin' come soon," Dean says, licks his neck and nips his ear like it's his fault. And, it apparently is. "I don't wanna come yet." 

"Pull out then," Sam manages to reply, regretting it the second Dean's cock leaves him. He stares at it, flushed and slick and just as beautiful as Dean is. His mouth waters, hungry to find out how it feels on his tongue. "Can I suck your cock?"

Dean licks his lips and raises one coy eyebrow. "Can't get enough, can ya'?"

"Just wanna return the favor, that's all." 

"You just wanna suck my cock because you're already addicted to it. Don't lie to yourself, Sammy. It's embarrassing for both of us," Dean replies, eyes dark as he stands out of the car and slowly strokes his cock. "Well? It's not gonna suck itself, now, is it?" 

Sam shoots him a look, settles on the edge. He holds Dean in his hand. Thicker than his, long and beading at the tip. Sam salivates further, mouth parting without his permission to take the head in and suck. 

"Just go easy, okay? I know where I wanna finish tonight and it's not in your pretty mouth," Dean tells him, settling a hand at the back of his head to guide his descent. "Although, I definitely want to some other time."

Ignoring Dean, Sam focuses on the taste on his tongue, the weight settling on the flat. It's unfamiliar since he's never done this before, but it's certainly not unwelcome, lips closing around the spongy flesh, feeling it cave in from the pressure. He tastes salt on his tongue. Normally, he would want to rid his mouth of that as soon as possible, but the knowledge that it's salt from Dean—-pure, unfiltered Dean, has him moaning and taking as much as he can in one go into his mouth. 

Dean's hand steadies his head. He tells him to go slow, that he's never done this before so it would be stupid to go in half-cocked, and then proceeds to laugh at his own pun. The idiot.

But he's Sam's idiot. 

That thought eats at him, floods his body with warmth and validation. Dean is  _ his. Sam's.  _ No one else can say that. The knowledge spurs him on to dedicate his undivided attention to every inch of the cock in his mouth, tasting Dean, inhaling Dean, accepting Dean for all that he is, into his throat. 

He feels Dean stretching his lips, hears the catch in his throat, smells the musk clinging to the thatch of hair. He can't reach it. Doesn't have the skills that Dean possesses, apparently. Had Dean done this before, or was he  _ that  _ determined to make it good for Sam that all logic and reason went out the window, all safety measures swept under the rug as he swallowed him whole? Sam doesn't know, but he doesn't want to think about the possibility of some other man knowing what Dean's lips feel like wrapped around their cock. 

No, he wants to focus on the stuttered breaths and half-pronounced curses when he swallows around the thick mass prodding the back of his throat. He wants to focus on the deep  _ Oh fucks  _ and  _ oh yeahs  _ and  _ just like thats  _ that tumble from Dean's lips when Sam draws back to the crown and circles his tongue like the hands on a clock, sussing Dean out, finding the spots that really make his hips jerk or shift the pattern of his breathing. 

Someday he'll spend more time on it. 

Someday soon. 

"Okay, that's enough of that," Dean says, extricating himself from the tunnel of Sam's mouth. He palms Sam's cheek and leans in, stealing his breath once more with a kiss that has him reeling, zero protests to Dean shifting him until he's settled chest to chest with Dean leaning back against the seat, one hand on Sam's ass, the other guiding his cock to his hole. "God yes." 

"Fuck!" Sam cries out and buries his face in Dean's neck, the feeling of coming home making him light and airy as he sinks down on Dean's cock. Dean's hands both land on his hips them, jerking him up and down as he grinds up into him, teeth at Sam's throat, neck, shoulder and collar bones as they match each other thrust for thrust, their skin melding together each time Sam settles on Dean's lap, never leaving it for more than half a second.

Their bodies are as close as they can get them. They're grunting, groaning, cursing, moaning the others name as they race towards the end, both of them far too pent up to draw this out any longer. Dean's hands on his hips are like bear traps caught on stone, piercing but not strong enough to break it. Sam knows he's going to wake up tomorrow covered in Dean's marks, and he couldn't be happier. 

His cock drags over Dean's stomach, hands bracing on broad shoulders to help with the rocking of their bodies. Breaths mingle, smells mix, skin slicks from the constant exertion. 

"Sammy…," Dean breathes, staring into his eyes. 

Sam stares back, transfixed. "Dean…," he echoes, putting just as much weight into that one word as he can, hips moving in tandem, teeth gritting from the blunt nails carving red lines onto his hips. 

"'m close." 

"Me too," Sam says, moaning at the dual sensation of Dean's cock ramming into him and his crown dragging over Dean's glowing skin. "Come on, Dean. I want you to come inside me. Please." 

Dean groans a word that can't be English, hands moving from Sam's hips, crawling up his back and raking lines of angry red, like cherry wine spilling over cracked glass. Sam folds himself into Dean, thrusts against him, takes him deeper, steering them into the final hurdle. 

"Oh, you sunovabitch!" Dean cries, pressing his face hard against Sam's neck, pulling him in almost impossibly close as he grinds his hips and fills his insides with his seed. 

"Dean!" Sam voices, hoping that one name encapsulates everything he's been feeling for several years now, that it transmits how gone he is, that there's no turning back, that there's no one else he would ever have wanted to give this part of himself to than this man—-this gift to God's green Earth that he could never dream of living without. 

And then he's coming, his essence soiling Dean's stomach and chest, spraying out of him like no one's business, draining him of every bit of fuel that he had left in the tank, body shaking as it flops in Dean's hold. 

Dean holds him through the aftershocks, wincing from what Sam assumes is the overstimulation caused by the slightest movement, on his part. He would let him slip out if he had any strength left to move in his body, and he doesn't. 

"So… Prom, huh?" Dean says through a voice that sounds like it just consumed broken glass, about five minutes later. 

"Yeah… prom." 

"One for the history books?"

Sam lifts his head, stares into the eyes of the one soul that completes him. "Without a doubt," he says, heart in his throat. "Thank you… For taking me." 

Dean chuckles lowly and clears his throat. "Oh, don't thank me yet. After we've got our breaths back, I'm taking you back to our room and introducing you to the wonders of shower sex." 

"Didn't you say that it's complicated?" Sam questions, even though he's one hundred percent on board with that plan. 

"Everything is complicated, Sammy. You've just gotta find the right fit. And I… I think I've found the right fit," Dean replies, swallowing. "If you'll… let me, that is."

For a minute, Sam thinks about how they could have been doing this for at least several months to a year depending on how low Dean's morals are. It fills his heart with regret. Regret for not being brave enough to even try when Dean was also suffering. But he can't wallow in the past. His brother is staring at him, waiting for him to tell him that this is okay, that they're okay, that they're always going to be okay. 

That's what matters. 

"Well, what did you have in mind?" 

Dean smirks. "Oh-ho, you're gonna be so, _so_ fuckin' sore in the mornin', baby boy." 

FIN 

**Author's Note:**

> I put a lot of effort into this, so I would really appreciate some feedback. I can't force anyone to leave a comment or kudo, but it is basically a payday for a writer when they get a comment from someone. Even something brief. It just shows that their hard work is appreciated. 
> 
> And, I reply to practically every comment, so come interact with me ;D


End file.
